I woke up about two in the morning, remembering life as it had been when I was in combat in Korea. I couldn’t get those memories out of my mind. One by one they crawled through and nothing I could do could stop them. I remembered clearly the first time that I heard a bullet go past my head. I was on a three man patrol as radio scout and a sniper took a shot at me – snipers liked radiomen. I remembered the shell that exploded within three feet of me, but the shrapnel went away from me. I remembered walking about a hundred yards back to the front line from an outpost following four nights of Chinese mass attacks – attacks that killed or wounded some 2300 of our men, and trying to take a step without stepping on shell fragments or other bits of the battle and failing to be able to do so. I remembered returning from a patrol and being under the muzzle of an artillery piece when it fired – I couldn’t see or hear for several minutes, but managed to get past before it fired again. There were other memories also, some too minor to enlarge on such as thirst and hunger, others more bloody. (These are detailed in my book “We Were Innocents,” Amazon.com)  I tried to focus on other things, matters of my current daily life but failed. I was awake all night.

I had six months up front; two as a radio man, four as a radio scout. Not counting my arrival on line on Christmas Eve, my first month, February, I was only on line four days, not long enough for combat pay. In March I was up for two weeks, long enough for combat pay – which you got after five days, but not long enough for four points towards return home. The next four months the only time I left the front line was either to work or, on a few occasions, to ride “shot gun” as protection against guerillas when we took a jeep back to get our drinking water and C-rations. (There was one other time, following a bad patrol when we were out all night and brought back for breakfast at Headquarters and our lieutenant gave us a fifth of whiskey to relax while waiting for the kitchen to open.) 

I was never, officially, wounded although a shell fragment cut open my boot and gave my foot a cut, but we were too busy at the time for me to go to a medic and by the time life calmed down the infected cut had healed. But that, as the recent night reminds me, did not mean that I didn’t carry some baggage, baggage I shall always carry, much of it emotional baggage unnoticed by me and others like me. My mother, for example, once reprimanded me, saying my father found me different, more difficult, after I returned. Once, trying to explain to my first wife, who was lying on the sofa, why a particular episode on “Mash” had disturbed me, she laughed at me. I slapped her and left the room. Lt. Col Wayne St. Pierre, a social worker whom I respected, once told me that he told one veteran he would have to forget those experiences. Wayne didn’t understand. We never forget, but the only ones who understand are those who “have been there.” Talking to one another helps.

This brings me to the reason for this blog. Almost thirty years ago, I was evaluating a disabled persons’ clinic at a university in North Dakota. One of its elements was a hearing clinic. I must have made a disparaging remark about testing hearing, because the director challenged me to take their tests. I did. And I was impressed. Afterwards, the director looked at me and asked, “When were you in combat?” When I asked how he knew I had been in combat, he replied, “You have the perfect combat hearing loss.” 

I thought no more of that at the time, but was reminded of it following retirement when my bride insisted that I needed hearing aids. Those things are expensive, so I decided to go to the nearby Veteran’s Hospital in Nashville. There, after examining my proof that I was an honorably discharged veteran, the director explained my situation to me. As a two year, unwounded, veteran, I was at the bottom of the list of those eligible for assistance. Purple Heart veterans led the list of eligibles, which I approved, but after that came a long list of groups; retirees, medically discharged and others. Two year vets were at the bottom, regardless of combat time.

At that time, I wrote to my Senator, Lamar Alexander, about my situation and said that I thought I deserved assistance from the Veterans’ Hospital. He never answered. I also made several telephone calls to his office. The person responsible for answering veterans was on vacation. He never returned telephone calls following the time I was told he had returned. I decided that my Senator wasn’t especially interested in this veteran - who was one of his constituents, and gave up. 

The number of veterans who have actually served in combat and emerged, officially unwounded, is tiny compared with the number of veterans who have served in peaceful or non-combat areas. Much smaller, I suspect, are the numbers who remained in the military following actual combat – at least of those I knew who experienced combat only one remained in the military and he transferred to the Air Force. Consider, who, having experience the carnage of battle, would care to continue it?  But the fact that they were officially unwounded doesn’t mean they don’t have conditions and carry baggage that is a direct result of their combat experience. 

At age 81, I am now past the time when the government needs to be concerned about me, but with three “wars” going on, there are going to be others coming home, or already home, who, like me, will be carrying baggage of which they may be unaware, but which deserve treatment when the need becomes apparent. It is my contention that combat veterans, regardless of length of service, should be placed second on the list of persons eligible for treatment at Veterans’ Hospitals, immediately under the Purple Heart recipients. If any of my readers agree with me, I wish they would contact their elected officials on the behalf of these men and women. Perhaps some of our other representatives will be more interested in their constituents’ welfare than Senator Alexander was in mine.